


Flowers in the Snow

by tardigrape



Series: The Witcher and His Bard [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Begging, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, Gay Sex, M/M, Melodrama Jaskier, No Spoilers, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Jaskier, Reunion Sex, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22421554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardigrape/pseuds/tardigrape
Summary: After years on the road without Jaskier, Geralt finds that he can't stop thinking about the bard, wondering where he is and what he's doing. Why, after all this time, is he suddenly so obsessed?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher and His Bard [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591987
Comments: 23
Kudos: 487





	Flowers in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the striga but before the double wedding in Cintra.

Geralt tossed a twig onto the fire and inhaled deeply, breathing in the hot scent of ash and boiling sap. For decades he had rarely built a campfire, preferring to keep to the shadows, eating his food cold (and occasionally raw), but now he couldn’t seem to shake the habit. In the few short years Jaskier had traveled by his side Geralt had come to enjoy the light and warmth. And the smell…the scent had a way of recalling to him Jaskier’s own scent, although the smell of the fire and the smell of the bard were nothing alike. It was more that the smell of the fire brought up the memory of the nights spent with Jaskier, the sound of his endless chatter and frequent strumming and singing, the taste of his lips (and of other parts of him as well, but his lips were always Geralt’s favorite taste, holding a lingering sweetness that was so purely Jaskier), the feel of his warm skin against Geralt’s as he curled against him, breath deep and even with sleep.

Geralt frowned, aware that his thoughts had gotten the better of him again, that he was outright _wallowing_ in his own miserable memories. As the months without Jaskier had turned into years Geralt had been increasingly able to keep his mind from straying into longing—pushing himself to the point of exhaustion chasing monster after monster to keep his thoughts focused—but lately he had found himself sitting next to a fire as the night deepened, lost in memories and fucking aching with longing.

He had only himself to blame. Jaskier had been so perfectly ready, so eager, even, to drag Geralt along on his journey to Cidaris, that he had seemed downright shocked that Geralt did not intend to go. Geralt had watched his features morph from glee to disbelief to sorrow as he realized Geralt meant to let him go, let him walk away, and Geralt had been tempted beyond reason to shrug, throw caution to the wind, and just give in and give him what he wanted, follow him to the wedding and wear ridiculous clothes and sip expensive wine while Jaskier serenaded royalty. But that would have meant that Jaskier would keep following Geralt after, would trail behind him (or, worse, trot out ahead of him) as Geralt tracked griffons onto hilltops and stalked vampires in crypts and hunted drowners in swamps, and one day Geralt would be too slow or too distracted or simply outnumbered, and he would have to watch as some beast ripped Jaskier open and ate him. Or worse, he would have to watch as some beast merely caught Jaskier with a grazing, poisoned blow, and Jaskier would wither under its effects before dying days later, Geralt helpless to save him.

So Geralt had, at the first opportunity, let him go, let him chase the fame he so desperately sought, so long as it took him away from Geralt, because the things Geralt loved always met sticky ends, and Geralt would not let that happen to Jaskier. Jaskier was a riot of color and light, a symphony of laughter and song and dance, a feast of scents and heady aromas; he had absolutely no business being covered in mud and blood and guts, as was Geralt’s lot in life, and he definitely had no business being run through or torn apart or slowly, agonizingly poisoned.

Geralt sighed and ran his hands through his hair as the firelight danced and crackled. What was wrong with him? Certainly, he’d spent a number of nights thinking about Jaskier, wondering where he was and what he was doing, even sighing with an empty sort of yearning, wishing for one more night by the fire with him, but usually the act of noticing his feelings was enough to rein them back under his control. He’d been pushing himself to exhaustion less and less, not least of all because it made him sloppy, and a sloppy witcher was a dead witcher. The new, jagged scar down the side of his torso was plenty evidence that he’d needed to slow down, so slow down he had, taking time to rest and heal between contracts. But his thoughts hadn’t run so desperately out of control, not for a long time. What was wrong with him?

Stretching his feet toward the fire, Geralt looked up into the sky, the stars a brilliant splash across it. If Jaskier were here, tucked into the crook of Geralt’s arm, he’d probably write a song about them, with flowing, filigreed words and a haunting melody. And Geralt would stroke his thumb over Jaskier’s skin, letting the vibrations of his voice thrum across his torso, the sound of Jaskier’s song filling his—

Fuck, he was doing it again. Geralt grunted, kicked dirt over the fire, lay back, and closed his eyes. Maybe by morning he’d have shaken this stupid habit.

The morning dawned cold and gray, and Geralt was a bit annoyed with himself for kicking the fire out. A thick frost rimed the grass around him, and the clouds threatened snow before nightfall. Geralt sat up and stretched, his muscles protesting, and retrieved the remains of the deer he’d made his dinner the night before. The carcass was frozen through. Geralt grumbled to himself as he gathered wood and piled it in the ashes of last night’s fire. Taking time to build a fire, then not just cook but first melt this meat would cost him hours. He had hoped to make it Muskarn early enough to negotiate a contract with the alderman there—rumors had reached as far as Bellhaven of the exsanguinated corpses of cattle and sheep and occasionally children, discovered the morning after a dark night. Geralt suspected an alp. Easy coin, but generous—people had a rather overblown fear of vampires. The more human a monster, the worse people hated it. But now he’d be lucky to reach the town by dusk, and that was on the chance he didn’t have to contend with snow along the way.

Well, one more day wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps Muskarn had an inn, and he could sleep indoors in a bed before he spent a night hunting a vampire through the snow.

Geralt settled in to cook the venison as the fire warmed his aching muscles, wishing Jaskier were here to give him a massage. He couldn’t believe how he’d lived so long without having one before Jaskier had introduced him to them. They were amazing, made all the better by the fact that they always finished with Geralt and Jaskier lying panting next to each other, having spent themselves inside each other.

Fuck, there his brain went _again_! Could he think of nothing else for even a moment? Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier, always Jaskier, not coin or food or even women, just the bard, crowding his thoughts, taking over his mind. What had he thought of, all that time on the road, before he had met Jaskier? He couldn’t recall.

With a growl, Geralt tore a piece of meat off the roasting carcass and stuffed it in his mouth. It wasn’t yet cooked, but he was tired of waiting, tired of sitting here and letting his thoughts stray again and again to a certain man who wasn’t beside him. He ate the rest of the meat as quickly as he could, shaking his head repeatedly to clear it of memories of tousled brown hair and startling blue eyes and pouting pink lips, and fuck it would feel good to kill something, if for no other reason than it would give him something else to think about.

He kicked out the fire again, tossing the bones of the deer aside, and climbed onto Roach’s back. He spurred her west, toward the village, and figured he might just make it before the sun set.

But the sky darkened as the day wore on. Geralt sniffed the air. Yes, the smell of the clouds was heavy; before he reached Muskarn he could be certain the landscape would be covered in a blanket of snow. But there was something else…

He sniffed again. The smell was faint, a fading trail, but it ran the same direction Geralt followed, along the road. It had a note of familiarity. Geralt turned his head and sniffed, teasing out the scents: sweat, body musk, mud from as far away as the north coast, a hint of sweetness somewhere between a buttercup and a dandelion—

Oh, fuck. It all made sense now. This scent had been on the road for days, the barest whisper of it, so faint it hadn’t truly registered in Geralt’s brain. Yet he’d been following it for days, since before Bellhaven. Fuck, it had probably led him to Bellhaven, and now it was leading him to Muskarn, and it was growing stronger, which meant that Geralt was catching up to its source.

For Geralt knew that scent, and realized it was why his brain wouldn’t stop feeding him memory after memory, tormenting him with longing. That scent was the smell of the person Geralt hoped never to see again just as much as he yearned to find him.

It was the smell of Jaskier.

Roach’s steady gait carried Geralt closer and closer to him. Geralt could stop now, turn the horse around, leave the people of Muskarn to their fates. But if Jaskier was still there…eventually the monster would tire of cattle and children and would start preying on larger targets, and a bard sleeping alone by the side of the road would make a meal too easy to pass up.

Geralt grunted with resignation and clicked his tongue, urging Roach faster. The sky, of course, chose this moment to open, dropping heavy white flakes that landed wetly on Geralt’s head and shoulders. He stopped Roach, pulled out his cloak and slipped it on, pulling the hood up, then mounted again, bending his head against the wind and the swirling flakes.

Thus by the time he reached Muskarn he was soaked and chilled, and Roach was in sore need of attention. The sky had darkened early from the storm, sending the townspeople indoors, and lamps winked in many windows. Jaskier’s scent swirled heavily in the air, even dampened as it was by the snow, so Geralt knew he was nearby. Indeed, as he approached the inn he heard the clear timbre of Jaskier’s voice and the familiar pluck of lute strings. A smile tugged at his lips despite the cold and the damp. But first things first.

The inn, wonder of wonders, boasted a small stable, and Geralt readily paid to lodge Roach there. He piled sweet hay for her and removed her saddle, tack, and bags, digging in the bags for a brush. She munched hay greedily as he brushed the moisture from her flanks.

The sound of Jaskier’s voice floated clearly through the wall, close as Geralt was to the inn. Geralt felt his own pulse speed at the sound, and a feeling rose in his torso, like a bird trapped in his chest, trying to fly out through his throat. As Geralt worked the brush over Roach’s coat, he mulled over what he might say to the bard, after all these years apart. Would Jaskier even want to speak to him? Would he be happy to see Geralt? Angry? Oh, gods forbid it, would he simply not care? Human lives were so terribly short. Had Jaskier already put Geralt and their time together behind him? Had he found someone who made him happy, someone who didn’t lead him repeatedly into danger?

At this, Geralt considered simply crawling into the warm hay beside Roach. He could speak to the alderman in the morning, hunt down the alp tomorrow night, collect his pay, and be on his way. There was no need for Jaskier ever to know he had been here.

But no, Geralt’s thoughts had been chasing themselves in circles for days, and he realized that all his attempts to wrench his mind away from Jaskier had been futile, because it wasn’t truly his mind that wanted the bard, it was his heart, and once Geralt’s heart committed to something it didn’t give it up without a fight. If Jaskier didn’t want him, that would be enough for Geralt to let him go, and it would be Geralt’s burden to bear. But if Jaskier did want him….

Geralt stowed the brush back in the saddlebag, settled a thick blanket over Roach’s back, brushed his hands on his trousers, and headed toward the inn. He pushed open the door and was greeted by a cacophonous assault on his senses: light, sound, and smell washed over him—the warm glow of the fire and lamps, the rowdy noise of drunk patrons under the melodious song of Jaskier’s voice and lute, the scents of ale and stew and rising bread and sweat and dirt and a faint tinge of blood.

A hush spread over the crowd from the doorway, where Geralt stood with the night behind him, and finally reached the place where Jaskier stood, midway through his performance. Jaskier’s eyes met Geralt’s, and his jaw fell open, his voice faltering in the middle of a verse, his fingers fumbling a discordant note on the strings of his lute. He set his lute aside and walked through the crowd, who parted to make way as he came to stand before Geralt.

Geralt pushed back his hood and looked down into clear blue eyes, and next thing he knew Jaskier had wrapped his arms around Geralt’s torso, pressing his face into his shoulder. Geralt’s arms tightened around the bard involuntarily, and he bent his head, pressing his cheek to Jaskier’s hair. He melted into the moment as the space between one heartbeat and the next lengthened into an eternity, in which the world fell away except for the two of them. Geralt knew nothing but the feel of Jaskier in his arms, the warm, rich, woody smell of his hair, the rapid sound of his quick-beating heart, the tight grip of his small hands on Geralt’s back. Jaskier inhaled and exhaled, a long, shuddering sigh, and finally pulled away, raising his blue eyes to meet Geralt’s again. His mouth was pulled into a wide smile, and his eyes danced, bright along the edges.

“Geralt,” he breathed. “I knew destiny would never keep us apart.”

Heads all over the tavern had turned to watch this exchange, and murmurs shivered over the crowd as Jaskier confirmed what the townsfolk suspected. Geralt’s ears picked up whispers: “It’s the witcher.” “The white wolf.” “He’s come to save us.” Geralt sighed and stepped away from Jaskier. “Go finish your performance,” he said with resignation. “I believe I need to negotiate terms with the alderman.”

Jaskier ducked his head, his eyes never leaving Geralt’s face, and he returned to his spot near the front of the tavern. As he picked up his lute and began to sing once more, Geralt turned to face the knot of people who pressed close to him, pleading with him to save their sheep, their cows, their children. He shrugged an apology at Jaskier and let himself be led back into the cold, dark night, away from everything he wanted, to be escorted to the alderman’s house.

The alderman, it transpired, was quite desperate, and agreed to pay Geralt a ridiculously large sum, even allowing for the fact that Geralt refused to do the job immediately, citing the storm and his need to warm up from the road. He agreed to hunt the alp the following night, provided the weather cleared up (secretly, he rather hoped it didn’t, hoped he’d be trapped in the inn with Jaskier for days and days). He shook the alderman’s hand and hurried back to the inn, where Jaskier was just finishing his performance.

Jaskier’s smile when Geralt came in warmed him to his toes. Jaskier hoisted his lute over his shoulder and met Geralt near the bar.

“Would you like a drink?” Jaskier asked, just as Geralt asked, “Do you have a room?”

“Yes,” Jaskier replied, as Geralt answered, “Sure.” Jaskier grinned awkwardly, as Geralt frowned. Jaskier turned to the barkeep. “Two ales, please.” The barkeep poured them, eyeing the pair of them with a wary suspicion, but Jaskier, cheerfully oblivious, slipped his hand into Geralt’s—the warmth of it chasing away the damp chill that clung to Geralt’s cloak—and led him to a table tucked into a dark corner. Jaskier sat, perched on the edge of the bench as if he intended to spring off it at any moment. Geralt unfastened his cloak and set it aside before sitting across from him.

“So,” Jaskier said, leaning onto his elbows, “how have you been? Where have you been?”

Geralt shrugged. “Here and there. Killing monsters. You know.” He took a sip of his beer, which was thin.

Jaskier shook his head, tipping his own mug back. “Spectacular story, Geralt, really, you have such a way with words.” He sighed. “Cidaris was a real adventure, I’ll have you know. You really should have joined me. Turned out Lady Sha de Molay was suspected of being an agent of a kraken, which had been sinking ships all along the coast. King Mathen tried to have her locked in the dungeon, and when I challenged him, in defense of the lady, would you know he had _me_ thrown in the dungeon instead?”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him. He wasn’t sure how much of this story to believe; he’d heard plenty of Jaskier’s embellished tales before. But Jaskier chattered on. “I was proud to be imprisoned for defending the honor of so fine a lady, glad to do it, of course, but it did mean that I missed what happened after that. I’ve had to piece it together from what I’ve been told.”

Geralt felt his attention slipping away from Jaskier’s words as the bard rambled on about the vengeful king and the noble prince and the beautiful maiden. Instead, Geralt found himself lost in the cadence of Jaskier’s voice, the blush on his cheeks, the sparkle in his eyes as he relayed the tale. Jaskier’s hands fluttered as he spoke, his gestures highlighting the triumphs and tragedies of his story.

“Geralt.” Geralt’s attention snapped back at the sound of his name. “Were you listening to me at all?”

“Hm,” Geralt said, taking another sip of his beer.

Jaskier sighed and shook his head. “So sorry my life isn’t as riveting as yours.” His bottom lip thrust out a bit, and Geralt was overtaken by a desperate desire to suck it, which he bit back with a growl. Jaskier arched an eyebrow at him. “Well then, what brings you to Muskarn?”

“An alp.” Geralt swigged his beer again. “Been killing the livestock and some children.”

“Oooooo,” Jaskier breathed, his eyes aglow again. “An alp, that’s a vampire, right?” Geralt nodded. “Oh, Geralt, you simply must let me come with you! It won’t be as great a story as the Kraken Princess of Cidaris, but that tale is years old now and I could use some fresh material.”

Geralt grunted. In truth, having Jaskier come along would give him no end of pleasure, knowing the bard was close. But it would also put Jaskier in danger—hell, half the reason Geralt had come to this town was to protect Jaskier from the monster. Of course, it might be easier to protect him if Geralt could keep an eye on him. “We’ll see,” he said. He need not make a decision immediately.

Jaskier’s pout returned. “No need to protect me, Geralt, I can take care of myself,” he said, as if he had read Geralt’s thoughts. Geralt snorted. “Oh, you don’t think so?” Jaskier scoffed. “Well, let me prove it to you. Take me with you to fight this monster.”

“Perhaps,” Geralt said. “If you’re still here tomorrow night.”

Jaskier blinked. “You’re not going tonight?” Geralt shook his head. “Why not?” Jaskier asked.

“Snow,” Geralt replied. “And there’s someone in town I wanted to catch up with.”

Jaskier blinked again. “Here in Muskarn? Who could you possibly know in…” His eyes grew wide and the corners of his mouth tugged into a grin. “You mean me?”

Geralt snorted a chuckle into his beer. A deep blush crept up Jaskier’s cheeks, and it made the bird in Geralt’s chest flutter again. Geralt drained the last of his beer. “You said you have a room?” he prodded.

“Um, yes.” Jaskier picked at the table, glanced at the stairs. His scent betrayed a nervous tang. Was he hiding something up in his room?

Geralt stood and held out an arm toward the stairs. “Lead on,” he said. Jaskier looked up at him, then down at his hands, then back at the stairs, as if a battle raged inside him. Finally, he muttered something that sounded awfully like, “Oh, fine,” got up, and trotted upstairs, Geralt following close behind. Jaskier pushed open the second door along a narrow hallway, and Geralt followed him in, closing the door behind him as Jaskier knelt to stoke the fire in the fireplace.

Jaskier bustled around the room, turning up the lamps, as Geralt slid off his wet and muddy boots, unbuckled and shrugged off his armor, and set it aside, along with his cloak. Jaskier chattered the entire while, asking Geralt how he’d heard about the monster in the village, what he needed to do to prepare, when he intended to set out to hunt it, and how vicious it was, not stopping long enough for Geralt to answer even if he wished to. Geralt chuckled. “Jaskier,” he said.

Jaskier turned, and Geralt stepped close to him, feeling the heat rising off his body, inhaling the heady scent that had brought him here despite himself. Geralt breathed in deeply, noting an earthy smell that underpinned the floral and tangy notes, which he recognized as the scent of Jaskier’s arousal. Geralt’s own cock hardened in response.

Jaskier drew in a shaking breath as Geralt reached up to touch his cheek. “Geralt,” he breathed, his eyes closed. Geralt leaned close, feeling the heat of Jaskier’s breath over his skin. Jaskier’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and he swallowed, his eyes still closed. Geralt wrapped his hand around Jaskier’s neck and pulled him in, pressing his lips against the bard’s. But, though Jaskier’s lips softened beneath his, they did not part, and Jaskier suddenly pulled back, wrenching away from Geralt, stepping back.

“Jaskier, what’s wrong?” Geralt asked.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier glared at Geralt, his blue eyes blazing. “You’ve been gone for years! I had no idea where you were, or if you were even alive!” His breath came rapidly, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “And you just walk back in here and kiss me like nothing has changed, like not a day has passed!”

Geralt blinked. “You didn’t want me to?”

Jaskier growled and ran his hands through his hair. “You stupid, impossible man! Of course I wanted you to! That’s not what I mean!”

“Then what do you mean?” Geralt had never been great at understanding humans, but this was especially outside of his grasp.

Jaskier threw his hands in the air, turned, and began to pace. “I mean you just waltzed into town, stopped me in the middle of my performance and didn’t even stick around to watch! And then you barge back in and don’t listen to a word I say, and don’t tell me anything about yourself or where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing, and then you just act like you can come up here and kiss me and everything will be fine, and how am I supposed to feel about any of that?”

“I…” Geralt shook his head. “What?”

“Gods, why am I such an idiot?” Jaskier shouted at the ceiling. “All you had to do was turn up and I was begging to follow you again, like nothing ever even happened, like you didn’t abandon me years ago.”

“Now hang on a minute,” Geralt growled. “You left me. If anyone abandoned anyone, it was you.”

“Don’t you dare!” Jaskier roared at Geralt. “One time, _one fucking time_ I did something for myself, and you couldn’t be bothered to come with me! After I had followed you for years, you couldn’t do the same for me even a single time!”

“I never asked you to follow me,” Geralt replied, trying to keep his voice down lest the innkeep throw them out for screaming at each other.

“No, you bloody well didn’t.” Jaskier turned, facing away from Geralt, his shoulders rising and falling with his quick, ragged breaths. “I’m not even angry with you. I’m angry with myself, for running right back to you so quickly, when I know I’ve never been anything but a burden to you.”

A hard knot tightened in Geralt’s chest. He had let Jaskier chase his fortunes far away from the witcher because he thought it was the only way to keep him safe. He had not realized how Jaskier might have felt about it.

“No,” he said, walking to stand beside Jaskier, who had hidden his face in his hands. “Jaskier.” Geralt laid a hand gently on Jaskier’s shoulder. “You have never been a burden to me.”

Jaskier looked up, his eyes red, his cheeks wet with tears. “Then what am I to you?”

“You’re my bard.”

Jaskier’s lip trembled, and his eyes searched Geralt’s face. Then he flung himself at Geralt, wrapping his arms around his middle. Geralt closed his arms around Jaskier in return, pressing him close, feeling his shuddering breaths as he sobbed quietly into Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt stroked his hair, its fine strands soft under his fingers, and pressed his cheek against the bard’s as Jaskier’s tears slowed. His lips ached for the taste of him, and Geralt kissed Jaskier’s damp cheek, and then kissed it again, his lips traveling closer to his mouth, until finally their mouths met, and this time Jaskier’s lips slipped open to allow Geralt’s tongue inside. Jaskier’s mouth tasted as sweet as Geralt remembered, tinged salty with his tears, and he returned Geralt’s kiss with a hot, desperate need. Jaskier’s fingers curled, gripping handfuls of Geralt’s shirt, as Geralt’s arms tightened, pulling his body as close as Geralt could manage. Geralt maneuvered them to the bed, where he sat, pulling Jaskier down onto his lap, never breaking the kiss.

“I’ve missed you,” Jaskier murmured against Geralt’s mouth. Geralt hummed in response, and swiftly unbuttoned Jaskier’s doublet, pushing it off his shoulders. Jaskier pulled off the shirt beneath it, and tugged Geralt’s up over his head as well. Then their arms were around each other again, their mouths pressed together, the sweet, hot taste of the bard rich on Geralt’s tongue, the weight of him heavy in Geralt’s lap, his heart beating a steady rhythm of _finally, finally, finally_. Jaskier pulled away from him to trail kisses down his jaw to his ear, nipping at his earlobe, then rose and unbuttoned Geralt’s trousers, his palm massaging Geralt’s cock through the fabric. Geralt moaned and lifted his hips so Jaskier could slide the last of his clothing off him. Jaskier’s pupils grew wide and he licked his lips as Geralt’s cock bobbed free. He pushed Geralt back onto the bed and climbed back onto him, his fingers wrapping around Geralt’s cock, making him draw in a hissing gasp of breath. Jaskier’s lute-calloused fingers stroked him once, twice, then paused, squeezing gently.

“Tell me what you want,” Jaskier said, his voice deep and breathy. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Geralt’s brain was empty of words, his whole being focused solely on the hand on his cock and the man that hand was attached to. Words were Jaskier’s specialty, not his. “Fuck,” he managed, biting his lip.

“Sorry, I’m going to need a bit more than that,” Jaskier said, squeezing Geralt’s cock. Geralt bucked his hips and gasped, but Jaskier did not relent.

“Let me…” Geralt choked out. “Let me fuck you,” he finally managed.

Jaskier resumed stroking him, but with a feather-light touch, applying just enough pressure to make Geralt’s vision go white with need. “Quite a request,” Jaskier said. “I haven’t seen you for years, didn’t even know if you were alive, and I should just let you fuck me?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, reaching for him, but Jaskier hopped off the bed, taking his hand off Geralt’s cock. Geralt growled, but Jaskier was unbuttoning his own trousers, his blue eyes gleaming.

“Perhaps,” he said, sliding his trousers down and kicking them off, “I will let you fuck me. I will sit on your cock and let you pound into me as hard as you want,” he climbed back on the bed, “let you fill me with your cum,” he returned his hand to Geralt’s cock, “if, and this is very important,” he squeezed, making a drop of moisture bead at the tip, “you beg me.”

Geralt’s eyes locked onto his, but Jaskier was not smiling, not teasing. In fact, his mouth was turned down in a slight frown, and his brows were drawn together. Geralt nodded. “Please, Jaskier. Please let me fuck you.”

“More,” Jaskier demanded, his grip on Geralt’s cock tightening.

“Please, my beautiful bard, have mercy. Please, please let me fill you.”

“Not enough,” Jaskier said, taking his hand away but then straddling Geralt’s hips, sitting so that Geralt’s cock was trapped beneath him, making Geralt ache with longing. Jaskier leaned forward, his face so near Geralt’s the witcher could feel his breath when he spoke. “Make me know how much you need me. Make it so I never doubt it again.”

Something in Geralt’s chest tightened, breaking with remorse for letting Jaskier wonder what he meant to him. “I need you so bad it hurts, Jaskier,” he said, pulling him down so Jaskier lay across him. “I need to feel you, to smell you, to taste you. I need to know you’re really here with me.” He kissed him, and Jaskier returned the kiss with passion. “Please,” Geralt murmured into his mouth. “Please let me know this is real.”

Jaskier pulled away, his eyes shining wetly, and climbed off Geralt, who gasped at the loss of touch. But he hurried back, a jar of oil in his hand. He poured a bit of oil onto his hand and massaged Geralt’s cock with it. Geralt moaned at the sensation, the slick pressure of it, even as Jaskier was climbing back onto him, settling his weight onto Geralt’s torso, pushing Geralt’s tip against his entrance.

Then Jaskier was sliding down onto Geralt’s cock, slowly, opening bit by bit as he went, gasping and swearing. Geralt fought a desperate, animal urge to thrust hard into him, bit his lip so hard he tasted blood just to keep control. His awareness shrank to the tight ring of Jaskier’s ass pinching slowly down him, finally, finally coming to rest against the base of his cock. A small sigh escaped Jaskier’s lips, and only Geralt’s steel will stopped him from flipping him over and pounding him senseless. But then Jaskier began to move, gently at first, rocking his hips against Geralt, one hand braced on his chest and the other on his shoulder. Geralt forced himself to match Jaskier’s slow, gentle rhythm, nudging his brain to pay attention to all his senses. Jaskier’s face was beautiful, his eyes closed and his mouth open, a pink flush on his cheeks. His scent had deepened to a musky, sweaty aroma, the smell of his arousal thick and bitter. Geralt ran his hands over Jaskier’s skin, pale and soft and covered in a fine down of hair, and Jaskier shivered under his touch.

As the bard began to increase the rhythm and lengthen his strokes, he again found his voice. “Oh, fuck, Geralt,” he whispered, “I had forgotten how fucking big you are, how much you fill me.” He began to ride Geralt with relish now, and one hand moved from Geralt’s shoulder to his own cock. “Your cock is incredible, and fuck it’s been so long since someone fucked me like this.” His strokes came faster, and Geralt moved his hand aside, replacing it with his own, eliciting a gasp from him. “Fuck, yes, that’s good, I’ve been aching for your touch, I think I may have died from lack of your hand on my cock.” Geralt stroked him harder, faster, grunting as Jaskier began to ride him with earnest, sliding up his cock and quickly slamming back down. Geralt himself thrust hard into him, again and again, the wet sound of Jaskier’s ass against him only tightening the pressure in his balls. Jaskier, for his part, thrust equally hard into Geralt’s fist, and sped his rhythm, the muscles in his thighs standing out in hard sinews, a sheen of sweat covering his skin.

Geralt grit his teeth as the pressure inside him built, and now Jaskier was begging him, “Yes, Geralt, come for me, please, please fill me, come inside me, please, yes, Geralt,” and Geralt had no choice, he had to give him exactly as he demanded, emptying himself inside Jaskier with a groan.

Jaskier gasped and squirmed, and Geralt fought through the desire to lie back and catch his breath, instead focusing on Jaskier’s cock in his hand. Geralt sat up, clutching the bard to him, his hand pumping his cock. The words tumbling out of Jaskier’s mouth ceased to have any coherence, instead becoming merely a string of profanity, liberally peppered with Geralt’s name. Then words disappeared entirely as he came, shooting thick streams of white so forcefully that it splattered into Geralt’s hair, across his shoulders, arcing across his chest.

Jaskier shuddered as his orgasm subsided, then turned and collapsed beside Geralt, sliding off of him. Geralt stood and used a cloth from a small ewer stand to wipe some of the cum off his skin—not all, the smell was divine—and returned to the bed, where Jaskier was curled into a tight ball, his knees drawn up to his chest, facing away from Geralt.

Geralt sat beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, but Jaskier flinched at the touch. “Jaskier, are you all right?”

Jaskier muttered something into the pillow, and even Geralt’s witcher ears couldn’t make it out. Geralt stretched out behind Jaskier, pulling him against him, back to chest, and leaned close. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier sighed and turned so he faced Geralt. His blue eyes were damp again. “Geralt,” he said, then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if he were steeling his resolve. “I need to know that I can be with you.” He opened his eyes, and they searched Geralt’s own. “That you won’t just be tolerating me, fucking me sometimes, letting me tag along as long as I don’t annoy you too much.”

“You don’t—”

“Geralt, _listen_ ,” Jaskier demanded. “I need to know that you’re with me as much as I’m with you. I can’t do this if you’re not in it as much as I am.”

Geralt touched his forehead to Jaskier’s, feeling the rush of his breath on his skin. “Yes,” he said, and Jaskier’s breath hitched. “Come with me. Be with me. As long as you like.”

Jaskier burrowed into Geralt’s neck, his arm wrapping around Geralt’s torso, and Geralt hugged him close. He hoped he had not just sealed Jaskier’s fate, hoped he would not have to watch Jaskier die a violent or agonizing death. Geralt would work to sharpen his skills, hone his senses, shorten his reaction times, to ensure he could always protect Jaskier, always keep him safe.

Because, as much as Jaskier was his, he was Jaskier’s in return. Jaskier was his bard, and he was Jaskier’s witcher, and it didn’t matter that it was ridiculous, that it was outright dangerous for the chattering, prancing singer to follow Geralt to the end of the world and back. It was the only thing Geralt wanted in life.

He closed his eyes as he listened to the faint whistle of Jaskier’s slow breath, felt the swell and release of his chest as his breathing slowed with sleep. Geralt breathed in deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of dandelions and buttercups, of sunshine, of music and dancing, and his fingers dug slightly into Jaskier’s soft flesh. Jaskier stirred in his sleep, burrowing even closer to Geralt, his foot sliding up Geralt’s leg so that he was entirely wrapped around the witcher, and Geralt’s pulse began to race, his heart beating so fast that it almost caught up to Jaskier’s. For this was what he had been missing, these last few years. No amount of coin, no fame or glory, no number of conquests could equal the calm, quiet trust of Jaskier curling around him in his sleep.

And so Geralt let the hours pass, not in sleep, but in a dreamlike meditation, his awareness concentrated solely on the man in his arms, the smell of his hair, the warmth of his skin, the blush of his cheeks. He didn’t have a name for the feeling rattling in his chest, because witchers were said to have no emotions, and this was a truism he had lived by, but its truth was crumbling in the face of the bald, loving trust of the man in his arms, the man who sought safety at Geralt's side. So Geralt vowed to himself—as long as Jaskier deigned to stay with him, Geralt would keep him safe from harm, no matter the cost.

This was his bard. This was his cause. This was his reason for being. And it was more than enough. It was everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, so after writing several pieces about Geralt and Jaskier breaking each other's hearts, I'm finally giving them some happiness, at least temporarily. These boys are just made for heartbreak, I'm sorry, I can't help it.
> 
> If you like my work, find me on tumblr: [thetardigrape](https://thetardigrape.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And as always, kudos and comments are appreciated!


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